


Forgiveness is a Four-Letter-Word

by ladybugwarrior



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Fluff, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, at the end though - Freeform, but I never say that he wouldn't try it, gratuitous overuse of commas, i never say Aziraphale would fight God for Crowley, these boys are soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 15:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19748224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladybugwarrior/pseuds/ladybugwarrior
Summary: Crowley watches the bookshop for Aziraphale when a certain celestial being he would have rather never seen again walks into the shop.





	Forgiveness is a Four-Letter-Word

**Author's Note:**

> I started this before the whole Crowley is Raphael thing became a super popular trope (because this is the exact kind of angst that I live for), but i take forever to write things, so here we are.  
> Anyways this was a way for me to procrastinate the fics that I'm having major writers block for and avoid the problems in my personal life, so can I hear a wahoo?

Crowley is bored as hell. Aziraphale is bored as hell. He, she, they are bored as hell. It's never a phrase that made any sense to Crowley. On a figurative level, he understands what it's supposed to mean— life at the moment was just as, if not more, boring than eternity. However, in a literal sense, hell is anything other than boring. Despite whatever an out looker may think when gazing upon the endless dark corridors of Hell, nothing about that place was boring. A demon can't get relaxed enough to be bored in hell, not with the murderers and torturers that watch your every move, all of them refusing to trust you for a second. They would all glee at the chance to kill him, Satan's favorite, but none of them will until they are sure they can get away with it. No, hell is anything other boring. Or maybe that’s just the way it is for Crowley.

  
He's never fit in down there, or up there to come to think of it.

  
It took Crowley six thousand years before he found a place where he didn’t have to act a certain amount of heavenly or hellish, and he found that place in A. Z. Fell's Antique Bookshop.

  
The coming week after the Apocalypse that never happened was begun with the realization that he could not safely return home. Ligur's bubbling puddle of demon goo and holy water made his apartment far too risky for him to reside in. So, while his apartment got expertly cleaned by a crew who by no small number of miracles didn’t ask questions about the strange puddle in his doorway, Crowley found himself staying on Aziraphale's couch.

  
Aziraphale had offered the bed, but Crowley didn’t sleep as much as his angel did anyways. He doesn’t find the comfort sleep it that Aziraphale enjoys every night for eight hours. It was kind of Aziraphale to let him stay on his couch, but Crowley can't help and feel displeasure towards their sleeping arrangements for putting so much distance between them. A place to sleep nearby Aziraphale would have been more suited to Crowley's tastes— after all, Aziraphale's bed is the perfect place between too soft and too firm, and it is large, much too large for one angel.

  
Still, despite what Crowley wants, he will wait for Aziraphale to invite him. Being on their own side is new and terrifying to his angel, and he's already waited six thousand years to be this close with him. What's six thousand more?

  
Well, it seems to be starting off with him watching the storefront while Aziraphale goes out to meet with some book dealer about some first edition prophecy book. Crowley doesn't see the purpose in having a book that predicts the future after they recently had The Prophecy Book, but when he asked Aziraphale why he needs it the only answer he got was that he "just does." At first, Crowley had been excited to watch the shop and scare off customers in new and creative ways, but thanks to Aziraphale's unruly hours of operation, no one was coming in. He resorts himself to flipping through the children's books that Adam left when he clicked the reboot button. The story was entertaining enough, but Crowley can't stand reading. If Aziraphale doesn’t return soon Crowley is going to build a fort using the religious scripts to keep himself entertained. The mere fact that he's actually excited when the door chimes to announces a new visitor shows how desperate he is for something to do.

  
"Well, hello." Crowley nearly buzzes from the excitement at ruining another sale, scarring another customer away forever. "What can I tempt you with tod..."

  
There's a woman in the shop. At least that's what most people see— a woman in a white pantsuit with golden irises. But, Crowley knows that person— knows that it’s Her. He hasn’t seen Her since she stood over Crowley and ten million other pre-fallen angels. She looked at them with a scowl filled only with disappointment, and She had looked at everyone but him.

  
"Hello," She smiles— Crowley's never seen Her smile before. "It's been a long time. What's the name you've been going by again?"

  
"Crowley," he answers Her automatically.

  
The emotion of seeing the Almighty, Creator of Worlds, and Keeper of The Great and Ineffable Plans are not dissi  
milar to seeing an old schoolteacher in the grocery store. Now, Crowley has never been to a public high school— though he did pride himself for inventing a cold, concrete building filled to the brim with angst-ridden teenagers— so, he's never actually gone through the experience of failing a class. However, standing face to face with Her, he feels the same way an ex-student would facing their Calculus teacher after failing the final. Except he failed Her in a much more dire way.

  
"Crowley," his name slips off Her tongue without any inflection to hint at a negative or positive reaction towards his demonic name. "Unfortunately, we'll have to make this quick. I've been very busy since the failed Armageddon."

  
His back straightens, but he doesn't prepare to fight or flee. Even if he wanted to attempt it, running from Her was pointless. "Are you here to kill me? Make sure Heaven still gets a win."

  
She runs Her hands across the bindings of Aziraphale's collection; he wants to tell Her to stop. "No, actually I hoped we could talk. The three of us."

  
Behind his sunglasses, Crowley's glares at Her. "He doesn't belong to you anymore.”

  
When She holds up Her hand Crowley stops talking. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to bring him back. I’m quite pleased with the work Aziraphale has been doing on Earth.”

  
“Then why are you here?”

  
The shop’s bell goes off again and in stumbles Aziraphale with a stack of antique books that went all the way up to his chin. His hair is a curled mess, and he’s already rambling to Crowley— unaware of their visitor— about how incredibly rude his book dealer acted towards him. All the hesitance he had towards having Crowley as his guest disappeared days ago and the angel had grown quite used to his presence. His actual schedule hadn’t changed— one of the things he was most concerned about. Aziraphale still spent the afternoons reading in silence, but now he did so as Crowley drank wine and swayed to his vinyl. It’s a nice life. It’s a boring life. Certainly, one where he doesn’t expect the Almighty to be standing about in his bookshop.

  
“Oh my. Lord, you’re here.” He’s frazzled, attempts to bow but he’s unable to do much more than nod his head. Aziraphale looks between Her and Crowley before dread washes over him. “Are you here to kill him?”

  
She smirks at Aziraphale’s direct question. He’s gotten bold, She thinks. “No, I'm afraid my smiting days are over. I came because I have an offer,” gold eyes turn to Crowley, “for you. Saving the world deserves a reward, does it not?”

  
Crowley’s almost at a loss for words. “A reward for ruining your Great Plan, saving the humans that you wanted dead."

  
"I never wanted them dead."

"What?" Aziraphale asked.

"Is it that much of a shock? I did create them for a larger purpose than to kill them all off after six thousand years." She pulls a little memo pad out of Her suit pocket. The words "INEFFABLE PLAN" are written in marker on the front. "You've always had such a way with words, Aziraphale. I hope you don’t mind me stealing one of them."

"Not at all."

"What offer?" Behind his sunglasses, Crowley's irises find a way to constrict even more than they already had before. "What could Heaven possibly have that I would want?"

"Forgiveness."

Now, a long time ago, before the written history of the world, She had shunned half of Her angels. Crowley had fallen into a boiling pit of sulfur and felt his wings burn into blackened, broken appendages on his back. Angels like Aziraphale can travel by their wings should they ever feel the need, but most don't find the need to as they linger around their own respective corners of Heaven or their Soho area bookshop. Hypothetically, demons can also fly. However, flying for demons is a painful experience, like sprinting on a once broken ankle that never quite healed. They were unhealable by any demonic or angelic miracle, in fact, most demons lost the wings all together in the fall. Only God can heal them with Her forgiveness.

Three words. That's all it would take.

However, She has never forgiven one of the Fallen before, and there were no indications that She ever would. Satan had once been Her favorite child, and if She could not find it in her to forgive him the other angels stood no chance. That being said, most do not care for forgiveness. Most meant to fall.

"Forgiveness?"

"You mean he'd be an angel again?" Aziraphale puts the books down and goes to stand near Crowley who processes Her words. "Is that even possible?"

"If it isn't I'll make it possible. Perks of being the creator of everything." She levels Crowley with a look. "I've missed you. The others aren’t the same without you, you know."

"Oh, believe me," Crowley spits out. "I have seen what they call heavenly these days. Burning a Principality with hellfire for averting war and saving their holier-than-thou lives? When did that become acceptable behavior?"

"Everything played out exactly as it was supposed to happen." She steps forward and puts a hand on Crowley's cheek, not deterred when he flinches back on instinct. "I miss you, Ra—"

Crowley pushes Her hand away. "Don't. That isn't who I am anymore. My name is Crowley."

"Your name was Raphael, and it can be again." She says.

Crowley has yet to look over to Aziraphale since his heavenly name was uttered by the Almighty. Should he glance over he would see Aziraphale looking at him like he had placed the final piece of a puzzle that he had assembled blindfolded. The task is a truly daunting one, and once all the colorful pieces are stuck together and the blindfold is removed the puzzle solver is shocked. The image that they had created in their mind of what all the little cardboard pieces look like does not reflect the actual image. The shock isn't necessarily bad or unsatisfying, rather it is unexpected.

"You're an archangel." He says softly.

"Not anymore." Crowley uses that tone he reserves for when he still attempts to sound cool and not let on that he's affected by the events around him. It's a tone that always breaks Aziraphale's heart. "I don't have a side anymore."

"You've always been on my side. Even fallen, you were loyal to me."

"I did not fall." The words roll off his tongue just as all the most comfortable lies do.

She smiles in Her all-knowing way— snide, clever, and slightly tragic around the edges. "You did fall, Raphael. It's the hardest decision I've ever had to make, choosing you."

The air stills in a metaphorical sense, or maybe a literal one as well. Crowley has always been a powerful demon, more powerful than Aziraphale could fully understand, until now at least. The possibility of a shock that intense causing Crowley to unintentionally freeze time around them is not something he would put past his demonic partner.

"What do you mean?" Aziraphale asks, takes a step ahead and puts Crowley behind him. "You chose him to fall?"

"The antichrist needed both Heaven and Hell on his side," She looks to Crowley. "You understand. Don't you?"

"Say it." Crowley sneers; his hand reaches towards Aziraphale's. He's surprised when Aziraphale reaches back to take it. "I want to hear you say it."

"What would that accomplish?"

"Just say it, Mother."

Aziraphale holds his breath. He knows what he's about to hear.

"I created you to heal them, even as a demon you can't escape that part of you. So, when I told the Archangels the Great Plan, the plan to kill all the humans, I knew you would seek other options. Question me. You couldn't help it." She holds out Her hand to him. "Now it's time to come home."

They don't move, neither one of them. Well, that isn't entirely true. They do move their hands. Crowley and Aziraphale grasp each other’s hands, and they don't take a single step towards Her.

She retracts her hand; the smirk doesn't fade away. "Think about it."

Then, She's leaves. There's no puff of smoke or flash of light; She walks out the same door that She came in, enters a taxi, and goes wherever all-power creators go on their days off.

Behind Aziraphale, Crowley's chest heaves and watches the taxi until it's gone. At the present moment, Aziraphale can't tell if Crowley is angry, relieved, or heartbroken by the unexpected reminder of his lost grace and status. He doesn't look to Aziraphale drops his hand and backs away.

"Crowley," Aziraphale keeps his voice kind and soft as he speaks. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"I didn't want you to know," Crowley says. "I haven't been that person in a long time. Don't even remember what it feels like, not really."

"Do you miss it?"

It's an odd sort of question, the one where the answer should be yes but should also be no. Answer yes to prove that he regrets his demonic form, which is true on some level, but he doesn't regret the freedom he obtained after the fall. Freedom to go where he liked, when he liked, and with who he liked. Though he thinks that maybe saying no would be more along the lines of what Aziraphale would expect to hear. Tell him that he couldn't fathom being a celestial again and that he would hate nothing more. That the thought of having that power, that acceptance, that warmth... It should repulse him. He wants it to make him sick, but it doesn't.

"I, well, it comes and goes." Flashes of white wings fly through his mind. They looked so much like Aziraphale's. Perfect in every way imaginable. "I'm sorry, Angel."

"For what?"

"Keeping this from you. I wanted to tell you a thousand times, but I didn't know if you would believe me. I wouldn't even believe me." He takes off his sunglasses and rubs his tired eyes.

Aziraphale doesn't deny the initial implausibility of Crowley's angelic identity. "I believe you; you'd never lie to me, Crowley. But they told me that Raphael, that you were out there, healing people."

"That," Crowley sighs as he drops onto the couch, "was Gabriel's work. A desperate attempt to keep the masses from panicking over two archangels falling from grace. Not a bad plan, though I'm surprised Gabriel was able to keep his mouth shut about the whole thing. Talk about a glory hound."

"Crowley, slow down." Aziraphale interrupts before he can go on a longer tirade. He takes Crowley's hand back in his own. "I don't believe your life has been very kind to you, my dear."

Crowley nods because there is nothing left to say. When Aziraphale sits down beside him, Crowley looks upon the wrinkles and dimples that he could picture with perfect clarity if he closed his eyes, even if he had not seen Aziraphale in a thousand years. He committed Aziraphale to memory millennia ago. He wonders if Aziraphale has done the same, and had he been able to read the angel's mind, seen the blinding light that shines in Aziraphale's mind when he imagines him, Crowley would have known how silly of a question that was in the first place.

"Oh," Crowley takes Aziraphale's hand. "I don't know. I think I've been pretty lucky, given the circumstances."

They smile at each other. Outside a bird's song floats in through the open window, and by some miracle, London is peaceful enough to hear a Nightingale sing.

**Author's Note:**

> [TUMBLR](https://dontfeedthebabytigers.tumblr.com/) | [GOOD OMENS PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4PxNLwPn65EM4iof0N9zru?si=21_nrvmRTMexyKTpKclI1A)


End file.
